


Words of Love

by eevilalice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M, Flash Fic, Gen, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eevilalice/pseuds/eevilalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated drabbles for Round 8 of dramione_ldws, "Words of Love," celebrating the 10th anniversary of Dramione.  I was thrilled and honored to be the Last Drabble Writer Standing!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Advanced Commitment

**Author's Note:**

> Warm-up challenge. Prompt was "commitment," and Draco's pov was required.

Her voice has gone brittle again, like a glass I want to break. It does this when I’ve disappointed her, which is more often than not.

I tell her people don’t change overnight. She says she knows, her expression sometimes softening, sometimes hardening. Resentful of the reminder, I guess, but she needs it.

She _is_ patient. More patient, I suspect, than she ever was with Potter and Weasley, who couldn’t keep up with her brilliance.

“Our relationship isn’t Charms homework,” she says.

But I catch the fleeting frowns, the way her eyes shift away when I dismiss a house-elf too curtly, or forget to _thank_ it (or refer to it as an “it”), or, Merlin forbid, state the _fact_ that Weasley’s family is too poor to have had a house-elf at all.

Apparently, redemption means one can no longer state facts. At least, not ones involving freckle-plagued exes.

Tonight, the brittleness, the hardening behind her eyes, has an edge that’s sharper than normal. It worries at me like a splinter.

“We’ve been planning this for weeks.”

“I know,” I snap. Because how could I not? (Know. Snap.)

She moves in closer, her hair a cloud at my cheek. “Meeting my parents…it’s so important to me. Isn’t it to you?”

I scrape my immaculate nails lightly across the fabric of the couch, the warmth of her near body an accusation, a promised thing I’m not doing my part to earn.

“But I won’t…know what I’m doing. I don’t know Muggle…things.” I stare straight ahead, pretending to ignore the tickle of her curls. Their cherry blossom scent that lingers on my clothes everywhere I go, spring, summer, autumn, winter. “I’ll look foolish.”

Her hand coaxes my face to meet her expression, her eyes startlingly soft, like liquid chocolate. I don’t understand.

“You know _me_. And I know you. And you _are_ foolish. And so am I. Yet here we are,” she smiles. “I love you. Let me.”

Her parents open the door, letting me into her childhood home, all its magical Muggle things, mysterious as what lets me keep trying. Failing. Trying.


	2. How to Adore, How to Need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: "adore" and "need." Post-Hogwarts setting required.

Hermione entered the reception hall for the Ministry’s fifth annual interdepartmental soiree feeling sour and sheepish. Sour because Harry and Ron had weaseled their way out of attending and sheepish because, well, she was wearing entirely too much pink.

The point of the party was to get Ministry employees, especially new ones, out of their offices and socializing. That airhead Prissy Peppercorn had been in charge of the festivities every year, and every year she insisted on forcing them to participate in some foolish children’s game.

This year, everyone was assigned an abstract _verb_ which they were to embody in their choice of dress. Hermione’s was “adore.” _Adore_. Vomit.

And how exactly did one dress adoringly?

Hermione’s vague answer was a frilly frock in multiple shades of pink, festooned with more ribbons and bows than the reception hall itself.

“Ms. Granger? Oh that is too _adorable_ ,” Prissy tittered from her post at the entryway. “Remember, no revealing your verb! And you’re going to _love_ the twist,” she winked.

Hermione blanched and smiled tightly before making a beeline for the refreshment table. Ministry employees gathered in clutches or wandered about, some with magically enhanced ensembles that screamed or whimpered or flashed lights.

She did her best to go unnoticed, looking as preoccupied as one could while drinking punch. A few acquaintances chatted with her, rolling their eyes at the silly game but guessing all the same.

Prissy’s Sonorus-enhanced voice cut through the din. “Ladies and gentlemen, I see you’ve been enjoying our game! To challenge you further, know that each person has a match you’ll now be able to identify. It is your job to find your match and not only look but _act_ your designated verb! First pair to guess correctly wins two days’ paid vacation! ”

Oh bother. She didn’t even care about the paid vacation.

Ignoring her fellow workers laughing and glancing about, Hermione made for the exit.

Doing the same was Draco Malfoy. Only he was glowing. Pink. And, now, gawking at her.

 _Bother._

Draco was new to the Ministry, having just finished a post-war sentence of house arrest. Many were not pleased with his appointment, but Hermione did her best to be friendly when their paths crossed.

He was dressed in simple but expensive robes, his usual. Swallowing, he fell to his knees and clutched at her satiny skirts. “Please, Granger,” he implored, “please get me the bloody hell out of here.”

Was he playing? Hermione decided she could work with a begging Malfoy, especially one who wanted the same thing she did.

Bending, she threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. “Draco, darling, of course. Anywhere with you!”

He pulled back, arching a brow. “Adore?”

She chuckled. “I was channeling Pansy from Hogwarts. Need?”

“Merlin, yes. I hate that Peppercorn woman. I hate…most of them. Save me.”

“You didn’t dress the part.”

“My costume’s underneath,” he smirked. “Need is naked.”

She blushed. Pink.


	3. Care of Non-Magical Creatures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: "naked" and "illicit." Hermione's pov required.

Back at Hogwarts, post-war, and I’ve become Harry sixth year, creeping around after Malfoy in the dead of night.

At least it’s sheer curiosity, not suspicion, driving me to crack the Transfig classroom door and peer into the moonlit space.

Turned away, his hair glows like a hard-won halo. Everything’s been too neat about Malfoy this year: appearance, schoolwork, behavior. But I suppose we’re all trying hard to get back on track, or right the track we used to be on.

Movement at his elbow. Again.

 _Is he…?_ A flush heats my face, spreads like electricity down to my chest. But why would he come all the way down here to do…that?

Then, a _clucking_.

Alright. This is too bizarre.

Pushing the door wide with an alarming creak, I advance on Malfoy, his pale face panicked as he turns, cradling some long, fleshy, wriggling thing.

“Shh,” he soothes. It takes me a second to realize he’s not addressing me, but the thing now squealing in his arms.

“What _is_ that?”

“What are you doing here, Granger? Get out!” he whisper-shouts. The thing pokes its head out from the crook of Malfoy’s arm. Whiskers twitch. A small nose quivers.

“Is that a…ferret?” I can’t help the grin.

Malfoy sighs in defeat. “Go ahead. Run off and tell McGonagall.”

“Tell her what?”

He looks down at the creature, strokes its bare head with a finger. It clucks in pleasure. “I started caring for him last year, but then he got sick. Incurably. Lost all his fur. I was supposed to—” he breaks off, looking away towards the windows.

“Euthanize him?” I finish, taking a step closer. Malfoy nods. I reach out a tentative hand, touch the ferret’s skin, which is warm despite its furlessness. He clucks, and Malfoy’s eyes shift to me, wide with surprise.

“How much time does he have?”

Malfoy’s gaze falls; his voice is small as he answers, “A week or so?” Our fingers touch as we pet the sick animal.

“Can I help?”

“There’s not much to be done. I just give him something for the pain.”

But he assents, and over the next several nights I learn the ferret’s name is “Phoebus,” help administer the pain draught, clean his cage with its magically constructed false bottom, which hides him from sight.

Night eight is hard; Phoebus is listless, the draught not enough. I take Malfoy’s hand. I don’t know what else to do.

Night nine he takes mine.

Night ten we find Phoebus still and silent, and Malfoy cries. My chest and throat constrict. I toy with my fingers, raise and lower my arms a couple times before wrapping them around him. He holds on so tight it hurts, and then he’s kissing me, salty and wet.

That morning before lessons, we bury him near Hagrid’s.

“He was…a good ferret,” Malfoy says lamely, sincerely.

“You’ll be even better someday.” His cheek is warm beneath my hand.


	4. Diplomatic Relations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winning drabble for Challenge #3! Prompts: "vulnerable" and "enchant." Required to be in the form of a letter.

Dear Granger,

On behalf of Slytherin, please, for the love of Merlin, put us out of our collective misery and ask Draco on a date. He is driving us all mad “complaining” about you constantly, as if it’s not evident he’s completely infatuated with you but, like a true Slytherin, too proud to make himself vulnerable and admit it. Well, I am also a true Slytherin and perfectly willing to go behind his back and do it for him, furthering my own interests, those interests being peace of mind and a quiet common room.

Don’t try pretending _you_ have no interest. I’ve noticed you staring at his arse in Potions and peeking at his spot at our table in the Great Hall. In fact, at first we thought you’d enchanted him with a spell or a love potion from Weasley’s brothers’ shop, but it’s been almost a month now we’ve had to put up with his incessant, gratuitous harangues (not to mention the tell-tale moaning of your name that night he forgot to use a Silencing charm whilst wanking), and potions and spells rarely last that long, even for someone with the Head Girl’s skills.

Plus, Pansy realized his “feelings” could be traced back to that incident in Potions when Finnegan spilled firewort solution on your blouse and not only rendered it see-through (nice lacy bra there, Granger), but itchy-hot, causing you to bolt to the loo, crashing into and landing on top of an unsuspecting Draco. That rack of yours must feel as good as it looks.

I suppose I may as well share that we discovered Draco arranged that whole thing (with Finnegan playing his part—he and Pansy are secretly dating, and Draco found out), ostensibly as a prank, but once he saw how much attention you’re now getting from the opposite (and some quarters of the same) sex, he seems not at all amused by its outcome.

Look, you’re always going on (and on) about the importance of interhouse relations post-war. I think we both know the kind of “relations” Gryffindor and Slytherin would benefit from in this case.

Yours in interhouse unity,  
Blaise Zabini


	5. Post-Teenage Rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: "satisfy" and "respect." Another character's pov (not Draco or Hermione) required.

Draco has always been an obedient son. Yet, he’s never quite been able to satisfy my expectations, with all his failures, coming in second to Potter in Quidditch (among other things), and Miss Granger, a _Muggleborn_ , in academics.

But there’s something else—not so much what he’s tried and been unable to achieve as what he’s _never_ attempted in the first place, and that is to challenge me.

What teenage boy does not rebel against his parents, his father in particular? Can he even become a man without doing so? I think not.

I never told Draco this, but his grandfather, Abraxas, did not initially approve of Narcissa. Too many blood traitors in the Black family, he said. He had another girl in mind for me, some high-ranking diplomat’s daughter at Beauxbatons. But I was set on my ice princess and put my foot down, all the while showing him what I was made of, rising through the Death Eater ranks. On his deathbed, you can be sure my father said he was proud.

So when, at dinner one night, Draco announces that he has asked out Miss Granger, and she has said yes, my feelings on the matter are more complicated than one would guess.

“Do you think that’s wise, Draco?” I ask.

“I don’t care,” he says firmly, staring down at his plate.

I consider my words carefully, glance at Narcissa, silent beside me, one elegant eyebrow arched. “Very strategic thinking, son. Romancing a war hero and Ministry fixture such as Miss Granger. It could go a long way toward redeeming the Malfoy name.”

“That’s not what this is about!” he shouts, slamming a fist on the table and rising from his chair abruptly. “She reached out to me after the war! She wrote me letters. We’ve been having lunch, and she makes me feel like I could be…” he trails off, thankfully. Malfoys do not stomach sentimentality well.

His defiance impresses me, even if I can’t help but find his choice galling. A small smile plays upon Narcissa’s lips; she’s always been able to read me so well.

A month later, we’re invited to dinner to officially meet Miss Granger as his girlfriend, the very definition of an awkward affair. Afterwards, putting on Narcissa’s coat, I see them framed in the doorway, Draco’s hands cupping her cheeks as they kiss.

I may not like it, I may not like _her_ , ever, but at least I can finally respect my son.


	6. Matchmaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: "affection" and "relish." Hogwarts Era required.

“Crookshanks!” Hermione’d been running along the castle corridors and down its shifting stairs after the cat for half an hour now.

She wished he’d show on the Marauder’s Map. She had a mountain of Transfiguration notes to re-copy since Ron had “accidentally” _Incendio_ ’d hers in a jealous fit after “catching” her in the act of, Merlin forbid, laughing at one of Seamus’s dirty jokes.

Clearly, Ron was not taking their break-up well. Neither was Hermione, to be honest, but she wasn’t about to let it ruin her final year at Hogwarts.

“Good evening, Miss Granger. Out for a late-night stroll?”

“Hello, Sir Nicholas. Have you seen a cat— _not_ Mrs. Norris?”

“Why, yes! Went that way.” He gestured towards the dungeons.

 _Wonderful._ “Thanks.”

 _What was Crooks doing down there_ , she wondered as she headed towards the Slytherin dormitory…

…and found, flattened against the wall, looking altogether uneasy, one Draco Malfoy, her cat at his heels. _Frisking_ him.

Hermione was too shocked to laugh.

“Granger, if you help get this beast away from me, I’ll leave off my nastiness for a full week.”

Snapping out of her daze and indulging that small, petty part of herself that relished such things as minor Malfoy torture, a grin spread across her face. “That bargain may have worked last year, Malfoy, but you’ve been surprisingly tame of late. And why exactly are you afraid of a _cat_?”

Malfoy shoved off from the wall. “I’m not afraid! It’s just this animal keeps… _finding_ me and _rubbing_ itself all over me. I think it’s been Imperiused.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Crooks, come here!”

But her pet ignored her, continuing to affectionately nuzzle Malfoy’s calves.

“This thing is yours?” he accused. “What game are you playing?”

“I’m not playing any game. He doesn’t even like most people.”

Malfoy’s glare disappeared, replaced by a smirk. “Well, then, he must have good taste.”

Hermione’s smirk mirrored his. “Did you just compliment me, Draco?”

He looked alarmed, like she’d uncovered some secret buried at the bottom of his soul. And was that a blush?

“He’s half-kneazle, you know. They’re able to tell when someone’s _unsavory_.”

“I’d say this one’s defective,” he snarked, but looked down at Crookshanks curiously. “Thought he was too hideous to just be an ugly cat.” He crouched and scratched between his ears nonetheless. Taking advantage, Crooks jumped into Malfoy’s arms.

“Hey!” He rose with an armful of half-kneazle, ginger fur all over his black robes. “What am I supposed to do with it now?”

She giggled. “Haven’t you ever had a pet before?”

“There are animals on the manor grounds, but they’re not really pets. The peacocks are quite mean and aloof, actually.”

“Seems fitting.”

Malfoy scowled but seemed more hurt than mad.

“You should get a cat,” she suggested.

“No I can’t, I’m—” he broke off, suddenly inhaling in great gasps.

And then sneezing all over Hermione.

Malfoy dropped Crookshanks, who simply landed on his feet and stared angrily up at him.

“No wonder you were so _uncomfortable_ around him,” she muttered, glancing at the Malfoy snot on her robes.

“Here.” He held out a monogrammed handkerchief.

“A white flag?” she smiled as she took it.

“If you like. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask…that team project in Vector’s class. Would you work with me? You’re the best at Arithmancy. And Malfoys get the best.” He looked weirdly smug yet nervous.

Hermione paused in her robe-dabbing, surprised. So many surprises tonight.

“Why not? Crooks has vetted you.” At their feet, said pet purred, rubbing along Malfoy’s legs again. “Just bring some anti-allergy potions.”


	7. Chronology of a Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "years." 100 words exactly. Winner of 2nd drabble final challenge.

The years have etched themselves into my heart like rings in a tree trunk. If you cored it, anyone could see: what I’ve been, what others have been to me.

So many rings regretfully thin, droughts when I was mean and no one but a fool would love me.

Then, the war. Then, _her_.

The rings growing thicker and thicker in direct proportion to my diminishing resistance: to her kindness, her intelligence, her scent, the sunlight on her hair. Her skin against my skin.

She’s the only one who’ll ever see, her eyes the only tool needed to core me.


End file.
